


How to Get Away with Murder

by MilesAboveFantasy



Category: Degrassi
Genre: Gen, gay male author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-17 17:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5879359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilesAboveFantasy/pseuds/MilesAboveFantasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They thought they could do the unthinkable and go about their lives, but now the Hollingsworth children will have to learn How to Get Away with Murder. AU taking place after Firestarter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conflagration I

**Conflagration I**

_March 9th, early evening_

Things were getting out of hand ever since he set fire to that hallway in Degrassi.

Those were the thoughts crossing through the mind of Miles Hollingsworth III as he stumbled into his room. He couldn't breathe, his arms were shaking, his eyes felt itchy and irritated but he would not let himself cry. The door slammed shut behind him in a slam that seemed not at all different from the thunder of the raging storm outside as he flopped into bed, rage leaving his body and flowing into his pillow as he pounded it with his fist. Returning home from Tristan's he had been happy – until entering the front gates of his house to see his father sitting there with his family, pleasantly chatting away as if what he did yesterday had not occurred. The thought sent Miles into further rage and he screamed into his pillow drowning out the ear cuddling scream in fluff. But he was not crying.  _"I will not cry over that monster,"_  was the only thought in Miles' mind as he ignored the moisture on his pillow.

He had been happy returning from Tristan's with hope in his heart that their friendship wasn't completely over – that Tristan might still be willing to be his friend after all they had been through. That's what made Miles' heart stop every time he thought of Tristan. He cared. Truly so. Yes, Tristan was mad at him for still having feelings for Maya; but, after some thinking, he was willing to be friends with Miles despite that. And the joy Tristan felt for him when he told him that his father had finally left his family alone made Miles feel warmer than he had in years. The memory of the smile they shared as they knew they would be friends for life felt like a dagger cutting into his heart. That moment, that happiness, was all Miles had really wanted. Then and there. But like everything else in his young life, his father ruined it.

He drove home from Tristan's with smile on his face, singing out loud the awful music that blared on the radio in joy over what his life would bring tomorrow. Oh, sure, two hundred hours community service wouldn't be fun - although it was more than fair for setting fire to a school. But he was happy. He was closer to his siblings than he had been in years. His mom was finally listening to him about the emotional and now physical abuse his father had rained down on him for years. He had friends that cared! Maya's faith and forgiveness in him in the days leading up to the fire had saved his family. Tristan had forgiven him and they were back to being best bros similar to the relationship he had with Winston, but with a deep care the other boy could never accomplish. And maybe, just maybe, something more. Not that he could think about that now. The rage his father brought out in him always drove him away from those he cared for.

For a moment, just a moment, he thought that he was done with that rage forever. But that hope was lost the moment he walked into the front gates of his home. Giddy from his talk with Tristan, he had sped home as fast as he could in the raging storm. And now he dashed up the stairs to the patio his family often ate at while doing his best to dodge the rain that pelted his hair and dug like ice into his shirt. And then he saw him. His father sitting at the dinner table with his family through the window on the patio that led into the little used dining room. His father sitting there, laughing, chatting with his family like nothing had ever happened. What he did yesterday. The unforgivable act that he thought ended things for good for his mother. Despair tore through him as he burst through the door, the ice cold rain no longer the coldness that pained his chest.

"What is he doing here?" Miles demanded an answer in a hoarse roar. His entire family looked at him, his siblings rustling in their seats. This wasn't going to end well, they knew. And Miles' heart broke. The crushing despair that tore through him when he saw his father in the dining room. That wasn't from seeing his father, but the knowledge that his father was the end of his happiness that had carried him through the day. His hopes and dreams - of going back to school next week with friends, of having a future, of having a home he could come home to and be happy – all gone. Similar feelings tore through his siblings too; he could see it on their faces. Maybe, just maybe, they thought, their father would come back and love him. And Miles was shattering that. Worse, they knew it wasn't his fault, but their father's. Their father would never love them again like he had when they were six and seven year old children. At the table was a shadow of a man who cared only for money, for reputation, for the power that came with being the mayor.

Miles' heart and stomach were in his throat, and he swore the water dripping down his face was from the rain. His mother spoke. "Miles," she said gently. "Miles. Calm down. I know you're upset. We all are. But this is for the best. We can be a happy family again."

Miles couldn't even look at her face. He knew if he did, he would snap at his father. Kill him here and now with the fork in his hand as he ate nonchalantly, ignoring the drama of his causing as he ate. His posture spoke volumes; that he was too good for this; that this was his family; that they would obey. So he avoided letting his gaze fall on his mother's face not wanting to see the mark his father had left there the night before. A mark his face bore as well. And now he couldn't ignore the dull throbbing under his eye. It had been there all day, but he hadn't noticed it except for when Tristan had asked was he okay. And he had smiled and said, "I'm fine Tris." The joys of the day had dulled the pain, but now here he was with the man who had caused the pain. All of it. His whole life.

And he stared at his father. The urge to throw up wracking his nerves as he tried to breathe. And then his father smiled. "Sit down Miles," he said. "Enjoy this fine meal your mother made for us." He waved his arm over the table as if presenting a work of art. A gesture saying 'mine.'

Miles' head was a fuzzy mess. His face held the warmth of fire as he looked at his father and felt a disgust he never had before. And he ran – promptly into the corner of the table sending the surface shaking. Glass and metal clattered at the disturbance. And his father looked at him and for a split second his eyes said 'you fucking screw up,' before reverting to the visage of the caring father that so captivated his mother.

Recovering from his stumble he ran. And then he was in his room, on his bed flinching at every crash of thunder in the stormy night. And he had never been so afraid in his life. He would never be happy. He would never be away from his father. Ever since the fire he had lost hope. In everything.

And then he gave in and cried himself to sleep.

* * *

 

He woke up and his room was iridescent blue. Light and shadow moved and if he were younger he would have sworn they were monsters as the loudest crack of thunder he had ever heard tore through his ears. That thunder had woken him up with a crackle so loud it was as if the storm were in his home. His body ached from what felt like an eternity of heaving as he cried into his pillow.

And his eyes darted toward the door to his bedroom as he heard glass fall and shatter in the hall. He stood up tentatively, slowly as he felt his body's lack of energy. Starved of joy. "And food," he muttered placing his hand over his stomach. Another reason for his nausea.

He crept towards the door and opened it slowly, peaking out, wanting to avoid his father if it were him. He found his mother picking up a shattered lamp. "Mom, you okay?" he asked, noticing the lethargic way she moved.

"Ma-Miles," she muttered, turning towards him.

A flash of anger filled him but turned to concern. "Are you high?" he asked, reaching a hand out to steady her.

She shrugged him off as gently as she could in her medicated state. "I'm fine. I just needed some help to sleep," she slurred.

He reached into her pocket to remove the bottle of pills. He sighed, "That's not exactly what these are for." Then he pocketed them, thinking,  _"with the day I've had…."_  And shuddered in disgust at the thought of downing the whole bottle and ending it all. Maya would never forgive him. Tristan either. And he smiled for the first time since getting home.

He lead his mother to her move, opening the door and letting her handle it from there. "Sleep well," he murmured before heading down the hall towards the kitchen. His stomach burned like acid, the twisting hunger gnawing at him. He pulled out his phone.  _"1am, too late for pizza,"_  he brooded with a sigh.

The light of his father's study was on. " _Bastard is still here_ ," he thought in anger. He walked past the door as quickly and quietly as he could manage. Crossing through the living room, he entered the kitchen. He opened the fridge and almost groaned in desire as he saw left overs. He smiled, noting the  _Miles_  scribbled over the wrapping of the food. Frankie's doing no doubt. He pulled the wrapping off as soon as the food hit the counter gorging on a bread stick resting on top. Half the food was gone before he felt the need to drink.

Retrieving a drink from a fridge he turned back to his food to find Hunter standing at the door way. If not for the flash of lightning illuminating the room he would have appeared to be the grim reaper as he entered the room with a hoodie on and only his nose and lips sticking out of the hood.

Miles smiled at him, doing the best big brother smile he could muster. "Want some?" he offered, indicating the food. Hunter only grunted in response as he approached the refrigerator. "Oh, come on, talk to me," Miles pleaded gently. "I'm sorry for starting a problems at dinner. You know how it is. I know you feel how wrong it was for him to be back too."

Again, Hunter only grunted. And then feeling Miles eyes baring into the back of his head, he replied. "Yeah, I guess." Short, to the point. Very hunter. But his voice sounded off, almost as if he were talking through a mouth full of food.

"You okay?" Miles asked. "Your voice sounds funny?"

"I'm fine," Hunter mumbled, hand shaking as he reached for the refrigerator door.

"Ha, you don't sound it," Miles said jokingly clasping a hand on Hunter back. And froze as Hunter stiffened, a hiss of pain leaving his lips. "Hunter?" Miles questioned.

Hunter ignored him.

Frowning, Miles grabbed Hunter lightly by the arm and spun him to face him. Miles stomach twisted, the pleasantness that had filled him as he ate turning to agony as he pulled Hunter's hood down. The yellow light of the refrigerator reflected off of him and he could barely make out injuries on Hunter face. Bruised cheek, busted lip, a small amount of dried up blood on his ear, and a look of shame and self-disgust on his face.

Miles froze, backed away in shocked a bumped into the island behind him. "He… he…" Miles sputtered. "He hit you?"

Hunter looked down. "It wasn't your fault, don't worry."

"That does matter!" Miles said strongly, putting his hands on Hunter's arms in reassurance – and regretted when Hunter hissed. Oh, his father would pay for this.

"This is wrong. I could take him hitting me… hitting Mom… But I won't… let him do this to you," Miles said, voice catching in sadness but not in doubt.

Hunter's eye shot up to him in fear. "Don't do anything rash. Don't make him mad. I stood up to him, that's why he did this." Hunter's voice was dead. The only feeling Miles could hear in it was fear.

Miles was breathing heavily now. "Go back to your room Hunter."

Hunter's started to protest but Miles stopped him with a hand gently in the air and eyes pleading 'trust me.'

Miles thought for a moment. Doubt twisted his stomach and he wondered not for this first time this night what it felt like to not feel like he was being eaten inside out. But his voice feigned confidence. "Don't worry, I won't do anything I will regret. I promise you, he'll never hurt you again."

* * *

His mind was racing as he watched Hunter walk back to his room - limping slightly now, he noticed. He couldn't let this happen. His life had been hell for years ever since his father decided he had to be the perfect son to be worthy of his love. Things were happening too fast! For years things had progressed slowly. At first his father found fault with everything that he did. This lead to years of arguing that his family blamed on puberty. It then progressed to the point where he was sent to boarding school to toughen him up away from family – but he had never felt more alone and seeking attention wherever he could find it leading to his suspension due to his promiscuous activities and eventual arson.

Then he was sent back home where he had the best and worst times of his life this last year. He made friends for the first time since Chewy when he was 5 – and promptly lost them all at the hands of his paranoid self-pity driven into him by his father. He was always the failure to his father. And at last his father's abuse became physical at the announcement of his sexuality – whatever that was other than the perfect, heterosexual son he could show off at his country clubs. It wasn't even his sexuality that upset his father. What made him mad was that he couldn't control his son. His father had tried to twist his sexuality into a good thing, but he was just using him. As always.

In these past weeks his father's abuse became violent, reaching the point where his sibling sided with him over his father. The breaking point. The fire that sparked the storm raging in his house – the storm raging inside him. His father had hit his brother. Taken his abuse to one of his siblings. And he would not stand for it. His mother was no help; returning to him after the violence he had inflicted upon her; ignoring the years of abuse he had suffered.

It had to end. For good.

And he was spurred into motion in a rush into the living room. The bookcase was in front of him full of various books and knick-knacks his mother had collected. Nothing of value, though she would claim they were invaluable exclaiming "10,000$ a piece!" He shook his head in displeasure. He loved his mother, but she was woefully mistaken in what she should value in life. Not that that was his concern at the moment as he pulled the bookcase away from the wall creating a space for him to reach his hand behind. His hand brushed metal as he released the straps that held the gun in place.

Cold metal dropped into his hands, and he saw his pale hand contrast to the shining black metal as lightning lit the room. He trembled, thunder rocking him to his core as the gun bounced in his hand. Pulling his hand out from behind the bookcase he held the gun at his side. He took a deep breath, legs wobbly and ready to give out on him. He felt cold and afraid. A different fear from earlier when he lied in bed angry at his father and the world, trembling at every roar of thunder he thought might be his dad at his door. That fear was warm, hot and full of rage. This fear was cold, ice cold. The fear from earlier made his blood boil and want to act. This fear chilled him to his core, made him want to shut down, fall to the floor and cry. But that would help no one. His family needed him to do this.

He put the gun in front of him, reaching his left hand over to check the gun. Bullets? Check. Safety? On – for now. Check. Can he fire this?  _"I'm about to find out,"_  he thought aiming the gun at thin air. He crushed any lingering thought of thanks towards his father for teaching him how to shoot. Now was not the time. That would haunt him later. He shuddered one last time before putting the gun in the back of his pants and began his walk towards his father's study.

His brained raced for an alternate solution but as soon as he found one he crushed it. No, his mom would not brave up and stop their father; she would not sacrifice her material possessions until one of her children was a bloody mess on the floor. And even then…

Turning his father into the police wouldn't work. He had the contacts and the resources to cover it up. Then he would pretend to be the loving father again before striking out at some minimal provocation. His family didn't deserve to live under that reign of fear.

Turning it over to the media would merely postpone his career. He would apologize then feign familial love as his wife pressured his children into going along with it. And he would destroy Miles for it either way. There was one way he would be happy at the end of all this. One way he could guarantee long lasting security for his family. No one deserved to live with a monster.

Now, he was near the door to his father's study, dim golden light peeking through the cracked door. Pushing it open with his left hand, he spoke softly. "Dad?"

His father slammed his pen down, a crack of anger on the desk, before realizing his mistake. "How can I help you Miles?" he spoke condescendingly. "Shouldn't you be in bed? You did after all go and cry yourself to sleep like the child you are?"

Miles ignored him. His reign of terror was over. "I want you to leave. Now. And never come back." His hand traveled down his back, reaching the cool metal only slightly heated by his body. His finger flicked the safety.

His father cackled in tandem with the thunder as lightning lit his silhouette on the window. He had never looked so monstrous to Miles and it took every last bit of strength for him to not collapse to the floor and apologize. But it was love for his siblings, love for his friends and maybe, for the first time ever, love for himself that kept him steady.

"Leave? My house? We've been over this Miles. This is MY house. MY family. I do everything for you? And you demand love? Respect? Common decency? This is my kingdom and you have to earn that here, you spoiled failure of a son. You can't do anything right. You even had to go and like boys! Was it that hard to shove your dick into girls? How about that blonde girl? Seemed like a nice gold digger, what I always wanted for you! At least I can control that. Or that Zoë girl? I hear she likes…"

"Shut up," Miles roared, raising the gun in his right hand pointed directly at his father's face. He was crying now. The first, last and only time his father would ever see it. His arm was shaking violently but he did his best to hold the gun steady.

His father's eyes went wide, then shifted to anger which quickly turned into humor and he laughed. "Really? You think you can shoot me? Put that gun down. You couldn't even punch me the other day. Fucking faggot. You're a failure. That's all you'll ever be. You were supposed to be my pride and joy, but you're a failure. No one will ever love you…."

Thunder roared once again. Miles barely heard the sound of the gun. Wouldn't have known it actually went off if it weren't for the searing pain in his ears and the blood illuminated by the lightning dripping from his father's skull.

Miles fell to his knees, dropping the gun to the floor in a clatter. And as he collapsed to the floor, unable to breathe, he couldn't stop crying.

 

 


	2. Conflagration II

**Conflagration II**

_March 10th, early morning._

His body was a twisted vortex of emotion, a storm roaring within him that made the thunderstorm outside seem as if it were a springtime drizzle.

He had just killed his father. A bullet to the head ending yet another tirade of abuse on his damaged son. And he was glad. Oh so very glad even as tears poured from his eyes and his chest dry heaved against the wooden floor of his father's study. His father was dead, he was free from his abuse!

But he had just killed a man. Boom. Bullet to the head. Dead. Forever. He had snuffed out a life permanently. One of the great human sins. A sin that sent people better than him to despair. And as such he cried. He felt like he couldn't get air into his lungs as he lay on the floor. He saw the gun out of the corner of his eyes and jerked away. He rolled away in panic desperate to get as far as he could from the weapon. He cradled himself in the corner between the wall and a cabinet afraid to look at the gun or the still warm body of his father.

On his haunches he cried looking at his hands. No blood, pale as ever. But he knew blood was on his hands. He rubbed them against his pants furiously trying to rub out non-existent blood, delirious as he backed further into the corner created by the wall and adjacent cabinet. The heaving hadn't stopped as he pushed his back against the cabinet hands nearing tearing off his pants as they fought to cleanse themselves of the horror they had wrought.

Then his hands shot to his head pressuring his temples trying in vain to push the pressure out; he felt like exploding. His head sank to his knees as he rested there cradling in on himself for what little comfort he could savor. He felt bile run up his throat as he vaguely heard syllables being yelled over his sobs that sounds like his name. He turned over collapsing to the floor catching himself with his hands and tried his best to stop himself from spewing his guts on the floor.

"Miles!" he heard again as he felt a hand on his shoulder blade.

He turned to find Frankie sitting there, infinite concern on her face. Hunter was close behind her, concern and guilt haunting his eyes.

"Franks. Frankie. Frankenstein," Miles giggled deliriously. "I'm sorry," he wailed, returning to his crying.

"Miles! I'm worried about you! What's wrong?" Frankie cried, running her hands up and down his back in comfort, tears streaming down her face.

"What do you mean? Don't you see!?" Miles laughed, looking into the direction of the chair his father's corpse rested, thankfully turned towards the door rather than the cabinet Miles collapsed near.

"What do you…?" she began, looking towards the chair, only quickly to be blocked by Hunter.

"Don't look," her twin told her. "You don't need to see this."

"What are you hiding from me?" she demanded.

"Our father," Miles began before bursting into delirious laughter as he rolled onto his back. "Was a self-serving bastard. He would have hurt us all again and again. So I ended it." And then he stopped, closed his eyes, and took a breath.

"Ended it?" Frankie asked uncertainly, reaching a tentative hand towards Miles.

"Get her out of here, Hunter!" Miles ordered as much as he could, barely able to speak. He could barely feel the life in his body.

Hunter nodded. "You too. Frankie, help me pick him up."

She nodded, but Miles stopped her from reaching him.

"Go away, both of you. I'm bad. I'm a failure. I'm not worthy of your love. Forget about me. I'll be in prison soon enough." Miles spoke, calm, accepting, without hope.

Frankie shook her head furiously, pieces finally clicking. She had been fighting the thought ever since Hunter rushed past her room minutes ago. But she knew. She knew Miles would not let her father get away with hitting them. "I don't care what you did. You're my brother and we're getting you out of this."

And she and Hunter hoisted him up and carried him out of the room.

They lowered Miles to the couch. He sat, trembling. He was cold even though he recognized the temperature of the room didn't support such a physiological response. His eyes snapped shut as Frankie turned on the light and headed for the kitchen. His mind was swirling but he vaguely recalled her saying she was going to get them all something to drink so they could talk. That was mere moments ago but every moment felt like an eternity to Miles right now. He shivered again and looked at his hands and fought the urge to rip them off - he managed to only look at them in disgust.

His gaze was broken as a tray dropped in a clatter on the coffee table in front of him. "Hot chocolate with espresso for all of us. We have a long night ahead of us," Frankie said, handing him his glass. He took it, taking a sip, baring feeling what would normally be considered uncomfortably hot. No damage, though logic told him he shouldn't sip more for a few minutes. So he took another big gulp, before speaking.

"Long night?"

"We have to hide the body, destroy the evidence, create our alibis," Frankie replied calmly, and then Miles got a good look at her. Bruised face, hair messy, eyes red with tears. Miles grabbed her face gently.

"Franks. Frankie. Not you too. He hit you!" he wailed. "I failed you too."

Her only response was, "Stop."

Miles blinked, and felt Hunter rustle on the couch next to him.

"You failed no one. It was not your job to protect us. But you did, and I'm glad. Now let us protect you." She took a sip of her drink, as Hunter spoke.

"You killed dad. We can't blame you. He treated you like shit for years, we see that now. And after some of the things he said to us last night ….. it had to be done. He wouldn't have left us alone. He might not have stopped until one of us was dead at this rate. You did what needed to be done. And now we will too."

"No. No, no, no." Miles said, attempting to stand up, but failing as his siblings pushed him back down.

"As far as we're concerned, we helped you kill him. We won't let you go down for this," Frankie stated. "We have the resources to succeed with this."

"No, Frankie," Miles said, trying in half an effort to fight their hold on him. "You don't think, I won't let you risk your futures on this."

"No, you don't think," Hunter said sternly, if calmly, behind him. "You didn't think this plan through and now we're going to help you clean it up. You risked your future for ours and now we're going to do the same."

"Really?" Miles said disbelievingly.

"Trust in twin power," Frankie said. "I have the social smarts, Hunter has the technical smarts. We'll beat this."

And then Miles laughed. A laugh of joy, pulling his siblings into a hug. "You know, I don't think I've ever said this before, but I love you. Both of you."

"We know," Hunter replied, voice breaking in guilt as he embraced his brother.

And they relaxed, sipping at their drinks, enjoying the familiar affection they all had been starved of for years. Ever since their father had started driving them against each other.

It was Frankie who broke the silence. "Let’s begin. Its 2am, we need the body gone by sunrise. This storm will work wonders for us," she said, standing up.

"You have a plan for that Franks?" Miles asked. "I saw mom take a whole bunch of pills, she won't be up for hours."

It was Hunter who answered, and he went into the kitchen. "We don't watch all these crime shows for nothing!" he said. "I hope you're not squeamish."

* * *

 

"Oh, my, god," Miles murmured as the twins met him in his father's study. "This is insane."

"You're one to talk 'psycho,'" Hunter said playfully. Noticing Miles' frown, he added, "I'm just kidding. Just getting you ready for they'll say about you in juvie if we get caught."

"Haha," Miles replied without mirth, but no anger.

"Don't joke about that," Frankie added, digging through her father's desk for a lighter, avoiding touching the corpse of the man who used to call himself her father.

"Yeah, Hunter," Miles joked. "Frankie is the one getting ready to burn the body. Sounds pretty psycho to me."

Frankie humped. "Focus guys, we have 3 hours until the sun comes up. And we just have to hope the storm doesn't stop before we get this fire out." She paused, then added. "Can one of your grab his watch, I don't want to touch him like this."

Miles froze at the thought of touching his father's corpse, but Hunter saved him. "Sure," the younger teen said, reaching over to unhook the watch before handing it to Frankie."

Frankie nodded in thanks. "We're going to dump this downtown tomorrow, so that someone will find it. We'll make it look like he was taken during a mugging and never heard from again. Miles, you'll tell the cops when they come that you got into an argument with him around 1am, and he left."

Miles frowned. "Why are the cops getting involved in this?"

Frankie gave him a droll look. "I'm starting to think that weed did sap your smarts, Miles. Tsk tsk. We'll have to report him missing soon otherwise we'll look suspicious. Plus, if we don't, Mom will."

"Makes sense," Miles agreed.

"And tomorrow, we are all going out and will pretend like everything's normal. I'll properly fix us all up with make-up. The reporters will see us, get pictures of all the Hollingsworth kids out together, and we'll be beyond suspicion when our father disappears. 'Surely all the kids wouldn't be out happy after murdering their father?' is what the media will say if suspicion ever gets thrown at us."

Miles blinked. "Wow, you really thought all of this through."

Frankie smiled. "We all have our strengths. Don't doubt yours."

He nodded, smiling, the guilt in his stomach lessening ever so slightly at her encouragement.

"I hate to interrupt this sibling moment. But are we ready for this," Hunter asks, pulling out the hammer. And before they could answer he swung the hammer, knocking out his father's teeth. None of the three could look.

* * *

Hunter's stomach was queasy as he collected his father's teeth from his mouth, freshly knocked out of his mouth by the hammer in his own hand. He was happy that his last meal was many many hours ago. Disgust filled him as the blood pooled in his hand and he wanted nothing more than to scrub it clean. Disinfect it. Maybe even cut it off. It would fit for tonight's activities at least. But this was the least he could do.

He looked to his siblings for reassurance. They nodded in return, and Frankie handed him a plastic bag.

"Wash them and put them in this bag. And clean your hand very well."

He nodded, more than glad to be able to get the sticky, partially coagulated warmth off his hand. He headed to the bathroom and took a deep breath on the way. Finally a moment to think. He felt mild disgust looking down at his bloody hand, white pearls glistening where they weren't chipped from the hammer. But the disgust was worth it, the little he could do to assuage his guilt.

It was his fault Miles killed their father. If he had just taken the candlestick like he had considered and bashed his father's head in instead of chickening out, and tackling him from behind just to stop him from beating Frankie, Miles would not have had to do the unthinkable. If he had just stayed in his room instead of going to the kitchen, Miles would not have noticed the bruises on his face until the next morning and may not have been driven to defend him. Hell, he could have spoken to Miles and begged him to not do it. 'Don't do anything rash.' Those were hardly words to stop someone from killing someone who threatened their own survival. He could have stopped Miles, but he couldn't. He had been too afraid to kill his father, and too afraid to wake up another morning to him. He knew Miles would do it though. Had known the moment Miles saw his damaged face; knew that Miles would fulfill the impulse that he too felt when he saw his father beating his sister; he knew Miles was impulsive and wouldn't back out. He knew Miles would save him from the burden.

And that was why he did this. That was why he busted out his father's teeth when neither of his siblings could. He owed it to Miles to see to it that he get out of this mess. He washed the teeth off in the sink, careful not to let any slip from his grasp before slipping them into the bag. He zipped it closed and looked into the mirror. Face purple with bruises, lip buster and sore. He looked down as he scrubbed his hand as he never had before. Like Miles, there was blood on his hands.

* * *

 

_This is what it feels like to be Frankie Hollingsworth right now:_

_"Wow, you really thought all of this through," her brother had told her._

_All she could do was smile. "We all have our strengths. Don't doubt yours."_

"And I won't doubt mine,"  _she added quietly in her head._

_Her brothers wanted to leave her out of this she knew - if she didn't hear Hunter pass by her room she had no doubt that they would never had told her. As the girl they saw her as the one who needed protecting. But what they didn't understand was that she cared about them as much as they cared about her._

_Oh, she didn't want to be doing this. None of them did. But one doesn't get to choose their father. Their father needed to be taken care of. Now they had to work together to figure this out. But now that it had happened there was one thing she could do._

_Take control._

_She always fancied herself a mini-detective. She'd seen enough crime shows to have some idea how to hide everything. But moreover, she was the level headed one of her siblings. Miles and Hunter - both hot headed, though in different ways._

_If they were going to get out of this alive, together and not in prison, she was going to have to orchestrate a scheme the likes that the Hollingsworths had never seen before._

_These were the thoughts that held her together as she thought of the best place on their property to set her father on fire._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed :) The next chapter will go back and explore some more back story leading up to the murder.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Well, I hope you enjoyed! I really wasn't planning to post this for a few weeks due to the complex nature of covering up a murder, however, this is a very strong chapter that is the basis of the story and I feel little change will occur between now and finishing the writing with relevance to the content of this chapter. 
> 
> A/N 2: This story is very, very loosely based of the TV show How to Get Away with Murder. Primarily, the story will deal with how the Hollingsworth children bond over covering up this mess.


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